


Apologies From the Intercom

by Tenors_only_gang



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Behavior, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Morally Ambiguous Character, Platonic Cuddling, Possession (mentioned), Time Travel (Mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:35:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28975959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenors_only_gang/pseuds/Tenors_only_gang
Summary: Quackity grieves himself, with Karl’s help, as he feels Schlatt leave his life for the last time. As it turns out, Karl has demons of his own.(Or: When Schlatt is summoned that day by Ghostbur and Tommy, he leaves Quackity’s body and Quackity and Karl are left to pick up the pieces. Title nabbed from Mitski’s “Last Words of a Shooting Star.”)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Karl Jacobs
Comments: 13
Kudos: 66





	Apologies From the Intercom

**Author's Note:**

> warning for mentions of canon-typical abuse from schlatt to quackity, otherwise please enjoy!!

Quackity’s walking around the remains of Manburg when the voice quiets. 

He’s circling around the crater, aimlessly, as a voice in his head taunts him for how little he’d done to stop the destruction of a country he was supposed to love with all of his heart, a nation that he was hell-bent on reforming from its very conception.

One could imagine Quackity’s flinch when the the former-president’s jeering ends abruptly, mid-sentence. 

The silence in its place is deafening.

“Sch… Schlatt?” Quackity asks, hesitant, his voice falling on no one’s ears but his own.

He’s gone.

He knows, intuitively, as he feels the tightness in his chest hollow, as if he’s been tensing his shoulders and clenching his jaw for months and only now can release them to a resting position.

He’s gone.

“He’s gone,” Quackity repeats, out loud this time, “he’s gone, let’s go, let’s fucking go!”

Quackity falls to his knees, the cold stone of the detonation zone holding his weight, no one around to watch him cry out his relief.

He takes a deep, unlabored, breath for the first time in almost two months. 

The air is fresh, and for the first time in ages he doesn’t wish to pollute it with cigarette smoke. He can feel the cool breeze through his jacket, the sweat sticking to him beginning to grow cold. 

The tired fog in his brain doesn’t quite dissipate, _and how could it really, with how tired he is all the goddamn time_ , but it’s definitely soothed by the lack of a harsh, constant, berating in response to every pained action, every minute thought or word.

It's the same freedom he felt just before the funeral, accompanied by tenfold the relief. 

He can have peace now. 

He can be autonomous again.

Under Schlatt, as the vice president, he’d done horrible things. He isn’t afraid to admit it, either: the man brought out the worst in him, and when he was slightly younger and much more idealistic, he’d wanted to join him in unifying Manburg. If a few people’s taxes were raised, a few former-tyrants were exiled, if he and his coworkers were relentlessly abused, if he were berated until he felt like the dirt beneath Schlatt’s and Wilbur’s feet, that’s the L he had to take. Anything for the nation he’d already poured so much energy and commitment into bettering.

And just when he’d gotten comfortable, when he’d thought it was all over, the former-president had entered his mind once more, had taken refuge in his body, turning him inside out all over again.

At first, it was by means of direct orders. 

It was through insults and idealisms, utterances of “you’re nothing” and “you deserve everything they have” in the same breath, which Quackity was more than familiar with. Schlatt barked an order and Quackity thanked him for it, following easily. The former vice-president was more than used to auto-pilot, especially when it came with a clear cut set of instructions and the occasional word of well-conditioning praise.

And then, Quackity grew tired. 

Weariness ran through him, his bones far too heavy, the weight of carrying two hearts setting in. Schlatt’s cruelties became his second nature, unhelped by Schlatt’s literal presence in every situation. 

He’d started conflict after conflict.

He’d taken one of Karl’s lives to prove a point.

He’d become who he’d been afraid to, Schlatt’s voice present all-throughout, buzzing in the back of his head. The fucking demon would never shut up, always craving protein powder and cigarettes and booze, and Quackity soaked in his mannerisms like a sponge.

Oh how useful raw exhaustion is in manipulation. Maybe Dream was onto something with Tommy, there.

Exhaustion. 

Quackity feels like he can collapse right here, sleep all night for once, when he realizes he isn’t even at home.

With the comfort of the silence, with the way that his thoughts can finally find a coherent rhythm again, Quackity quietly laughs as he notices himself almost falling drifting off in the crater. He stands, his joints feeling like they’ve shed decades of age, and drags himself to the cave in which he stores a single bed and a now-empty one-horse stable.

Quackity falls onto the bed, kicking off his shoes and pressing his face into the thin, woollen, pillow, and can say with confidence that he’s never been this tired before: not after filing papers under Schlatt, not after walking on eggshells around him to tend to Wilbur, and not after the rusty end of a pickaxe jams into his jaw, Technoblade snarling at him from the giving end.

The day Schlatt had died, the relief was enough to send him to sleep soundly, the fatigue after something big had finally ended more real than ever. It was short lived, obviously enough, and followed by what was easily the worst period in Quackity’s life. He’s still reeling from Schlatt’s death, let alone his _removal_ , for lack of a better word.

Quackity sleeps, dreamlessly, for a day and a half.

It’s all he can do. His body soaks in the much-needed rest like a sponge.

He wakes to silence, and as obvious as it is he finds it completely unexpected. This isn't some form of advanced manipulation, or a cruel trick, or even an act of mercy on Schlatt’s part: it’s real, and it’s goddamn terrifying. As awful as it felt to share his body and mind, Quackity hasn’t been alone in a _long_ time. Even before the possession, Schlatt tracked his every move, a piss-yellow eagle eye trained on the overworked vice president. Quackity doesn’t know what to do now, with no one to tell him how to behave, what to think, _when to sleep._

He stays in bed for a long time.

He cries into his thin pillow, in mourning, both for Schlatt and himself.

He wonders if he’ll ever be the person he was before Schlatt, he wonders if he’ll be the anchor that Manburg needs, if the idealism now squashed under overly-shined dress shoes was ever viable in the first place. 

He wonders why Dream has so much power, and sobs harder when a reflex in his mind asks why he isn’t the one in possession of it.

After spending days curled around himself in bed, losing himself in the flow of time, he decides that he can’t be trusted alone with himself. 

Not like this at least—not when the last time he was this grief-stricken and withdrawal-ridden he’d made the worst mistake of his life.

And, of course, not to mention how Schlatt’s absence left him moulded, as if Schlatt’s fingers dug into his brain and left handprints, and they've yet to fill. Quackity finds himself less like spongy memory foam and more like cooled glass: the shape he’s taken can’t be repaired alone, not when he’s so conditioned to associate warmth with constant interaction. It’s strange too: a day ago, he’d give anything to relieve himself of his cool sweat, of the fever that burned with the disease possessing his body—now, all he feels is horribly cold.

He doesn’t deserve it either.

He doesn’t deserve a hand from Sapnap, or Karl, or anyone. 

Sapnap is probably still standing in the rubble of his home, _his first home_. One of his best friends has left in a mad pursuit of power, the other too apathetic to hold Sapnap’s hand through it.

Quackity was there for none of it. 

And even as Quackity was too caught up in his own head, shifting himself between Schlatt’s whims and his own until they melted to become one and the same, at least he hadn’t _killed_ Sapnap.

How willing to die for Quackity’s cause, for a free nation, that Karl was.

His eyes were bright: he didn’t know, really, what it meant to die. 

Quackity had taken advantage of that. With a curled lip he laid out a barely cohesive plan to attack Eret’s castle. He volunteered one of his best friend’s lives without a second thought. 

Karl had hardly screamed. His eyes flickered violet, briefly, as he bit down hard on his lower lip, and then he was gone. Quackity isn’t sure why he can’t exactly picture Karl’s limp body on the ground, probably horribly disfigured from the blast, but he’s thankful for the small mercy.

Even free of Schlatt, Quackity finds himself left with so much of the former-president. His apathy, his anger, his thirst for power: they leave permanent stains on his skin, just like the faint spot of discoloration on the underside of his chin, like the even lighter burn running down his left arm. 

He’s dangerous now; violent intrusions leech away at his psyche, murky and foreign and horribly familiar.

He doesn’t deserve company or help, but nonetheless, he finds himself outside of Karl’s door, rapping on the bamboo and shivering.

The warmth of the breeze wafting from the house hits Quackity in a puff as the door clicks open, Karl staring down at him from the doorway in his usual color-blocked hoodie.

“Alex?” The taller asks, his voice saturated with concern, and Quackity curses how blurry everything is, how Karl’s face _should_ be real and grounding and it instead feels like a mirage.

Quackity tries to come up with a coherent explanation, a good reason to show up on his best friend’s doorstep, but before he can do so he’s pulled into a pair of skinny, cotton-blend-draped arms. He cuddles into the contact, wrapping his own around Karl’s torso. The side of his face falls flush with the space between Karl’s clavicles. 

He inhales and smells pumpkin pie.

“It’s getting dark, you don't have to talk— it’s cold. Come on.”

The words hit Quackity as if he’s underwater, and Karl practically _pulls_ him inside, the soft grip on his wrist a slight tug in the general direction of reality. 

Whatever warmth Quackity felt from the outside exploded tenfold as he walked inside, the smell of a heated furnace mingling with the scent of old books—Karl’s never stricken Quackity as much of a reader, but he doesn’t have much of the capacity to think about it right now, Karl pulling the former vice president to sit beside him on his bed. 

The worry weighing on Karl’s eyebrows doesn’t suit him.

“Alex, can you hear me okay?”

“I— he—” Quackity bites down on his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, before trying to start again, “He’s gone. He— it’s over.”

“Take your time, Alex, just breathe.”

“I— Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

They sit in silence for several minutes, Quackity sniffling and hitching his breath, gripping onto the sheets like they’re a lifeline until he finds himself calm enough to fall against Karl’s shoulder, and Karl mumbles something about Quackity’s mullet tickling him.

“Karl, can you just— can you talk to me? Any fuckin’ thing.”

“Ummm… Oh, I spoke to Sapnap earlier. He’s really bummed about the community house thing. He was standing there, earlier, I think he said he was paying his respects. George doesn’t really seem like he cares, but I haven’t spoken to him personally. He doesn’t really talk about stuff though so I guess I don’t really know. Uh… I don’t really know what else? I’ve been a little busy. Not super, but, you get it. Just trying to keep my mind off of, like, everything.”

“Yeah.”

Quackity isn’t sure how to put his next words, how to get off his chest what he hasn’t told anyone for months. It sounds ridiculous to a stranger, probably, but nonetheless, he decides to rip the band-aid off. Better this than holding it in any longer.

“I haven’t been alone in a crazy long time, Karl. You remember Schlatt?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“True,” Quackity laughs, his voice momentarily taking on a rough edge as he drags out the word, “He’s— he never really left me Karl.”

Karl turns to him, slightly awkward as Quackity’s head still lies against his shoulder.

“I know.”

Quackity sits up, his eyes widening from their sleepy half-drifted-shut state.

“What? How?”

“I know way more than I should, Alex, probably more than anyone should. I can’t really explain right now—I don’t know if I can, so right now I just wanna make sure that you’re okay.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks, Karl.”

“Yeah, of course.”

There’s something eerie about Karl’s voice, something Quackity can’t quite put his finger on. He sounds tired, equally tired as Quackity if not more. The whole SMP is drained from the week’s events, sure, but Karl’s never been one for politics. He swapped from Manburg’s to Schlatt’s side on a whim, even if that was what felt like ages ago—there’s something off, and Quackity would be enraged with himself for not being able to figure it out if he weren’t five seconds from passing out at any given time.

“Can I tell you a story? To take your mind off things?” 

Karl asks this sweetly, stretching his arm out for Quackity to come back to how he was lying just a few seconds prior.

Quackity takes the invitation without hesitation, and nods at the suggestion.

“It’s a little sad, 's that okay?”

Quackity blinks slowly and smiles, lazy.

“Yeah, pop off.”

Seemingly satisfied with Quackity’s tone, Karl licks his lips, the metaphorical cogs behind his eyes visibly turning as he pieces together the narrative.

“Years ago, before any of us were here, or any of our ancestors either, there was a gossipy little village next to a river. All of the townsfolk were a little weird. there was Miles, he was a steak connoisseur, whatever that means; Robin, an orphan child; and then there was Helga—oh, you’ll like her, she was the wife of two separate mayors and ran around giving _favors_ to the men of the village…”

And just as before, Quackity falls into a trance, half awake and half asleep, following Karl’s voice like it's a gently rocking tide. Occasionally, Karl wanders into tangents, describing a little cranny of the village as if he knows it intimately, inflecting his voice with the dialogue and mentioning Helga as much as possible to pull soft huffs of laughter from Quackity. 

Karl’s voice falls somber towards the end of the tale, the emotional gravity of what now feels just a tad too real setting into him. 

Karl breathes a quiet _’the end’_. 

The silence in the room, the dark of the night, eats them whole.

“You were right,” Quackity says, after a beat, “That was really fuckin' sad.”

“It was. But also a little beautiful, I think, right? Corpse made Robin his son. It has to mean something right?”

“I guess so,” Quackity shrugs, bumping Karl’s stomach, “Yeah.”

“Yeah. It has to.”

Quackity purses his lips, the awkward switch in their dynamic becoming more clear to him. Karl seems to be in no place to comfort another person right now. 

_Selfish_ , Quackity bitterly reminds himself.

“It’s so crazy, Karl,” he pipes up, disallowing the air from going sour, “you're telling me all these things, like about Sapnap, before, and I— you know I was there for them. But I wasn’t… _there_. My body was there.”

Karl’s head bumps Quackity’s as he nods.

“Yeah, I get that. Like— you were just going through the... whatever-it-is.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s fine too. I mean, you were dealing with a lot. You still kinda are.”

“I can’t wait for this to be over.”

“Me too.”

It feels like a loaded answer. Quackity wonders, in the lack of elaboration, when Karl became so quietly thoughtful, holding his cards closer to his chest. 

Then again, maybe it’s just Quackity. He’s here, demanding comfort, when he’d caused Karl so much pain without so much as an acknowledgement. Maybe Karl was always like this, and Quackity is just imperceptive: too caught up in his own bullshit to look outside of himself, while the world goes stale around them. It stings, either way. Karl isn’t the same happy-go-lucky man he once was, even if he seems to stay optimistic. His eyes are still warm, energetic, but older: the gray-blue shade they sit at feels murkier, less like the sky in a downpour and more like the rolling clouds on the precipice of cracking open.

“There’s a universe right next to this one where we’re all at the beach right now.” Karl admits into the room, a whisper meant for only the two of them, ”We’re looking for buried treasure. Dream keeps attacking George, you slept in and showed up after we already found the treasure, it's nice. Not quiet, but it's chill.”

“I wish we were there right now.”

“Me too.”

“...But we’re not. We’re here.”

“Here is still better than other places,” he reasons, “There’re a lot worse places to be than here. We could be… I don’t know, in prison, all alone.”

Quackity sighs. “I mean, I think I am, a little bit.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay, I’m tired of talking about it.”

“You wanna nap about it? I can make some food too, if you’re hungry.”

“I’m not. I’m really tired though.”

“Yeah,” Karl sighs, giggling slightly, “me too. I think all of us are.”

“True.”

Karl separates himself from Quackity to lie down on his stomach, his chin propped up on his pillow as he looks back at the other.

“You can stay over.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Don’t sweat it. This all sucks. It’s— honked.”

“Just say fuck, Jesus Christ.”

Karl giggles at that, louder, and for a moment everything feels right. Quackity lies down on his back beside Karl, his hands folded over his stomach.

“Sleepover, amiright?”

“Yeah, we can— paint each others nails and braid our hair and stuff.”

“Fuck yeah, let’s go!”

Quackity is beaming now, his eyes wrinkled at their corners more genuinely than he can ever remember in recent history. He turns his head to face the other, laughing, and through his squinted eyes he finally puts his finger on the thing that’s been unsettling him since he first showed up at Karl’s door.

“Was your hoodie always fuckin’— did it change colors?”

Karl’s smile falls instantly.

“What?”

“Am I imagining it? It’s different.”

Karl’s face falls as he props himself on his elbows to inspect a sleeve.

“I don’t know. I’m, like, a little colorblind, so I didn’t really notice.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” Quackity mutters.

“I think it was always like this.”

Quackity doesn’t say anything about the slight panic in the other’s tone. There are much bigger things to worry about than color-block hoodies.

Things like, for instance, when Quackity finally feels himself start to drift off, Karl begins to mumble to himself, a silent promise Quackity is confident he isn’t supposed to hear.

“When all of it goes away and I’m not me anymore, pretend we’re all at the beach together. In another universe where we’re all happy. We’re playing volleyball and looking for buried treasure. I’m gonna do my best for you guys ‘til the end. ‘Til I can’t anymore. I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

**Author's Note:**

> karl you’re going to break my heart
> 
> according to ao3 statistics only a small percentage of people that read my content actually comment on it and leave kudos so if you enjoyed please do that its free and it makes me feel so appreciated :] 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4krkw1YcEK3HRjVxYC8fAi?si=tEfWKvh4Qm-4AvJkaVGxog - here's my SMP Quackity playlist im so happy to be back to writing this mf i missed him


End file.
